


Liar

by TheManicMagician



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale has a lot of hang-ups about God, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Like he just loves his angel so much guys, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: Aziraphale told Crowley that the Almighty never mentioned the absent flaming sword again. He was, in fact, lying.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 495
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	Liar

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Folks. Mother of all coincidences, there’s a Queen song called Liar. When it appears in the fic, feel free to give it [a listen.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3pTYNP-jWU)

Aziraphale is Falling.

That must be what this is. It makes sense. He gave away his divine sword. He fraternized with the enemy instead of smiting him on sight. And, perhaps, his worst transgression of all: he lied to Her.

The humans are long gone, far from the gates of Eden. The serpent slithered after them. Aziraphale had watched him leave, a ribbon of black twisting along the pale dunes of the desert. The angel had intended to follow—just to make sure the snake wasn’t going to stir up any further mischief, that’s all—when he was suddenly struck to the ground by an unimaginable pain in his chest.

He fought in the Rebellion, led a platoon of his own. He’s not new to physical pain. He all too clearly recalls when an unholy sword dug into the meat of his thigh, the excruciating torture that was battlefield surgery. 

This is so much worse. His chest is searing, burning, like he’s being carved open. Is that what’s happening? Is God ripping her Grace out of his soul, wresting it back by force? He wants to apologize. To beg for mercy. Anything. But agony clogs his throat, and he writhes in the sand, clawing at his chest, trying to keep himself whole. The pain crests, and he loses all sense of time and space, dumb to anything outside of the hot lashes against his skin.

The sun vanishes and rises four times before the pain finally slopes off, and his mind is his own again. Aziraphale drags himself upright, and hobbles through the eastern gate, into Eden.

God’s despair has soured paradise. The flowers are wilting, foul-smelling clumps. The trees have all shed their leaves, and insects ravage their insides. Aziraphale stumbles to a stop before the nearest pool of water. It hasn’t yet dried up into crusted mud, but it won’t be long, surely.

Aziraphale reluctantly looks down at his reflection.

He staggers back. “Oh, God.” He chokes. His wings are white, pure white, as they’ve always been. He twists every which way, to be sure, and there’s not so much as a lone black feather, no clinging ash or sulfur. He hasn’t Fallen, after all. So then, what—?

With fumbling hands he unknots his robe and steps out of it. The pale flesh of his chest has been carved open with a molten gold, a single word branded across his skin in flowing Enochian:

Liar.

Aziraphale’s heart thumps with fear. She _knows_. Of course She does. Did he actually think he could get away with it? She’s omnipotent and omnipresent. She gave him the opportunity to redeem himself, to confess that he’d given away Her sword, and he’d _lied about it_. 

Aziraphale traces a hand around the lettering, and winces at the residual sting. He should be grateful. He could’ve Fallen for his many transgressions. How many had been cast from Heaven by his blade, or on his orders? As demons, would they remember him still? Would they torture him for the eternal damnation he’d sentenced them to? Better to never be among them, to never find out the answer to that question. Things are better like this, certainly. Better to branded (like a beast), than Fall. He is grateful for Her mercy, he thinks, and almost manages to convince himself he believes it.

~*~

Gabriel tasked Aziraphale with boarding Noah’s ark and seeing it and its inhabitants safely through the forty-day flood, and so far he’s doing a rather bang-up job about it, he thinks. Ten days have passed since the ark began to sail, and Aziraphale’s needed miracles have been minor. He’s plugged a few holes on the upper deck to stop rainwater from dripping down onto the animals. Yesterday he discovered a bag of chicken feed gone waterlogged and mushy, and he miracled it dry and edible once more. Yes, it’s all been rather smooth sailing. Considering.

Right now he’s taking inventory of their supplies, but really it’s just an excuse to stretch his legs. He chafes his hands together. He hadn’t expected it to be so awfully cold. The ark is rather drafty, and the relentless rain is bitingly chilly; he won’t be surprised if he needs to miracle illness away from Noah’s family before this is over.

“Angel!”

He starts. Japheth, one of Noah’s sons, sprints towards him.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“A snake!” He cries. “It’s outside—on the rocks—I don’t know how it got out!”

Aziraphale runs a mental sweep over the ship’s holdings; all the animals are accounted for. It could just be an ordinary, unfortunate snake outside, but what _if_ — 

“Show me,” Aziraphale says.

Japheth nods, wide-eyed, and scrambles up to the deck, Aziraphale on his heels. The rain lashes down, and in seconds Aziraphale is soaked through.

“There!” Japheth points. Aziraphale pushes his curls away from his eyes as he leans over the railing. Lightning bisects the sky, illuminating a large black and red snake coiled at the top of a mountain peak, which will surely in moments disappear entirely beneath the choppy waves.

“Crawly,” He breathes, and his wings burst into the physical plane without conscious thought. Japheth cries out in awe, but it’s a distant sound to the angel.

Aziraphale vaults over the railing and dives down. Usually rain would glance off his oiled feathers, but his slack maintenance and the harsh winds and rain make his flight a struggle. He yelps as he nearly plummets into the frigid floodwater, but he manages to stay in the air with several strong beats of his wings. He lands roughly on the rock, and slips his way over to the snake’s side. His intuition is correct—it’s the demon. 

“Crawly!” He yells to be heard over the roaring water. He grabs the snake’s head and holds it between his hands. Snakes have no eyelids to blink, and it’s disturbing to watch as dull amber eyes brighten into consciousness.

“We need to get back to the ark!” Aziraphale shouts, but Crawly doesn’t shift into his other form, the one which can actually fly. “The _ark_ , Crawly. We don’t have time to dally here!”

Every moment they waste here, the further away the currents pull the boat. Water is already slipping around Aziraphale’s ankles. He slaps at the side of the snake’s face, but Crawly is insensible—has the cold muddled his mind?

“Oh, for Heaven’s—” He bites off the rest of the swear. Best not bring them into this. Aziraphale gathers up Crawly’s coils in his arms. He’s as broad and heavy as a python, and Aziraphale’s waterlogged wings strain under their combined weights as he lifts off.

He flies half-blind. Water slicks his hair over one eye, and he hasn’t the spare hand in his corporeal form to push it out of the way. At least Crawly isn’t struggling; there’s no way he’d be able to keep his grip on his slick, scaly body if it was squirming all around. 

Aziraphale lands upon the boat with an ungraceful splat. Japheth is instantly at his side, joy peeking out through his fright. 

“You did it! You saved it!”

“Have you been waiting out here for me this entire time?” Aziraphale clucks his tongue disapprovingly at the young man. The human ducks his head, abashed. Aziraphale prays he catches no illness as a result of this. “Back inside with you. I’ll take him—er, it—back to its stall.”

They descend below-deck. Jepheth leaves him to reunite with his family, whilst Aziraphale turns towards the animal holdings. Wedged in next to the lone unicorn’s pen is the small space Aziraphale has taken for his own. It’s horribly cramped and bare. There’s a bed of dry straw (quickly growing damp, now, as Aziraphale drips all over it) and a barrel of wine Aziraphale alternately drinks from with a handmade mug and sits atop of. He salvaged a handful of clay tablets before the world was swallowed by water. Nothing important; they’re shipping logs and inane letters. But at least he’s held onto something of the people who once lived here.

In the comparative warmth and dryness, Crawly stirs at last. He squirms out of Aziraphale’s grasp and drops to the wood-plank floor. He rears up to glower at Aziraphale.

“Why did you bring me here?” He hisses. “I didn’t asssssk for your help.”

“Well.” Aziraphale sniffs, stung. “You’re _welcome_ , by the way.”

There’s a rush of air, and then Crawly is standing before him in his human guise, clothes miracled dry. 

“Is that wine?” He shoves past Aziraphale and helps himself to a mugful of dark red from the barrel. He watches Crawly’s mouth cover the same curve of clay that Aziraphale’s has touched. “Well?”

“....Well what?”

“Why did you bother? Should’ve just let me discorporate. Said you’d done the deed, even. The prats upstairs would’ve given you a medal or summat.”

“I’m not—”

_(a liar)_

“—that is to say, I won’t fudge my reports to, to score some points! Really now, Crawly. And I could hardly just _leave_ you there.”

“Hmmm,” Crawly cocks an eyebrow, and he doesn’t even have to say anything. They’re both thinking it. Aziraphale left the humans to their watery graves with only a bit of hand wringing.

Aziraphale sneezes. Crawly sets his wine aside, frowning.

“Why don’t you dry off already?” He gestures to Aziraphale’s sodden outfit.

“I’m not supposed to use miracles for my own personal benefit.” He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself in a gambit to generate warmth. Said gambit does not succeed. 

“That’s ridiculous.”

Aziraphale rather agrees with him, but he’s not about to admit it out loud. “It’s Gabriel’s policy.”

“Well, you can’t stay in those wet clothes, that’s a brilliant way to get sick, you know.” Crawly brazenly grasps the sleeve of Aziraphale’s robe, peeling it up to expose the angel’s bare forearm. Angels and demons have no qualms with nudity; even today, angels wander the halls of Heaven in their true forms, uncovered and unashamed. But Aziraphale wears his human guise permanently now, even Upstairs, as an excuse to clothe himself, his chest. No one knows his secret. No one has seen the brand. Not the angels, not Crawly. No one.

If Crawly sees, he’ll hate him for it. What’s more, he’ll weaponize it against him. He’ll bring it up when a disaster is fresh, and Aziraphale is vulnerable. “Why does She deserve your everlasting devotion?” Crawly will husk into the shell of his ear. “When all She does hurt the humans you love so? When all She does is hurt you?” And it’ll be the last push Aziraphale needs to tip over the edge into Hell.

“Don’t touch me!” Aziraphale yelps, slapping Crawly’s hand away from him. He backs against the wall, putting as much distance between them as he can.

There’s hurt in Crawly’s yellow eyes before they ice over into cold neutrality. 

“Of course. Satan forbid I taint your celestial body with my infernal hands.”

That’s not it, Aziraphale wants to say. It’s not what it looks like. But he cannot explain himself, and so he says nothing as Crawly skulks from the room, leaving Aziraphale sodden and shivering and alone, again.

~*~

In the wake of the Great Flood, Noah’s family comes to the western land of Shinar. There, they grow fruitful and multiply, as humans so often do. Collective human memory is short, which is perhaps why they are doomed to repeat the same cycle of tragedy over and over again. Not four generations after the wicked ones are washed away, the humans in their arrogance attempt to build the tallest tower in the world, one high enough to scrape the heavens.

They’re not even close—the tower is approximately 250 meters high. It’s nothing compared to the heights humans will climb to once they have better materials at hand to work with; it’s utterly insignificant when compared to the natural height of mountains. But the hubris of the humans angers the Almighty, and She responds, accordingly.

Aziraphale is in the city of Shinar when it happens, sharing a ~~friendly meal~~ business lunch with Crawly. They’re bickering over something asinine—the taste and benefits of goat milk versus cow milk—when Aziraphale feels the Earth tremble, and the brand comes alive again on his chest. 

Aziraphale’s wine slips from his suddenly nerveless grasp, and Crawly yelps and jumps away as it spills over the table. 

“Angel, what the Hell’s—” Crawly bites off the rest of his sentence as Aziraphale doubles over with a groan of pain. He presses a hand to his chest, and can feel the brand squirming beneath his robes. Lines twist, coil, curve, like a parasitic worm burrowed under his skin. Like a ribbon caught in a hurricane.

In a flash Crawly is on Aziraphale’s side of the dripping table. He places a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back, but withdraws it at the angel’s flinch.

Crawly speaks again, his tone concerned—but Aziraphale can make no sense of the garbled noise that comes out of his mouth.

“I m-must—I’ve got to get out of here.” He needs to return to his dwelling to curl up and wait out this new agony.

Aziraphale plants his hands on the table to lever himself upright. He barely notices that the hems of his sleeves catch in the spill, red soaking the white fabric. 

Crawly’s still talking, an insensible chatter in his left ear. All around them, the phenomenon is repeating. Friends and family are suddenly stripped of their common language. They jabber at each other, turn to strangers, desperate for someone to understand them.

Crawly’s hand is firm on Aziraphale’s upper arm, and the demon steers him out of the eatery. Outside, the hysteria mounts rapidly. Those who can speak the same language are clumping together. Two men are arguing over a woman; she speaks the same tongue as the stranger, but not her husband. Children run about, screeching for their parents, but the adults that try to help them cannot understand them, only adding to their distress. And at the great tower, construction is thrown into disarray. Men were in the process of hauling a heavy pallet of bricks up to the top. The pulley system has gone askew, likely during the earlier quake. The rope can’t bear the weight properly, and it’ll soon snap. The bricks will plummet into the crowd. Men below are shouting warnings—but the ones above can’t understand them. 

Aziraphale pushes past his personal stress, fingers coming together to miracle the pulley system operational again. He freezes. The Almighty had called down the earthquake. If he intervenes now, would She see it as him acting against Her?

Crawly snarls gibberish when Aziraphale stops in the road, frozen by indecision. He follows Aziraphale’s gaze, and snaps his fingers. The rope breaks, but the falling bricks miraculously hit no one below.

“Th-Thank you.”

Crawly doesn’t understand him, and Aziraphale is momentarily glad for it; the demon would never let him thank him otherwise.

The weather is mild for Shinar, but Aziraphale sweats heavily. He feels cold all over, and grows dizzy staring at the dusty roadway as it glides by under his feet. He’s glad Crawly is pulling him along, as he doesn’t think he could manage walking alone right now. Crawly drags him to an inn, where he already has a room reserved; evidently, he hasn’t been living in the city as Aziraphale has. The room is bare of any personal effects. There’s a bed of fresh straw in one corner of the room, which Crawly urges Aziraphale to lay down upon.

Crawly speaks rapidly, with the intonation of questions. Aziraphale shakes his head helplessly.

“Go help them. I’ll be fine here.” He makes a shooing motion, hoping Crawly will at least understand that. 

Crawly tries to talk, and cuts himself off, recognizing the futility of it. He growls, twisting his hands in his hair. He paces the short length of the room with agitation. Watching him walk back and forth stirs up nausea, so Aziraphale stops watching.

The brand undulates, and Aziraphale can’t quite bite off his resulting whimper. Crawly’s vision narrows in on how Aziraphale clutches at his chest. The demon stoops down in front of him, reaching out. 

A bolt of panic strikes him. He pushes Crawly away from him as his wings flare into existence on the corporeal plane. Crawly backs away, confused, alarmed, and obviously hurt at being rebuffed. He knows Crawly is only trying to help, but he cannot see Aziraphale’s secret shame.

Aziraphale curls into a ball, drawing his wings tight to him to obscure himself from the demon’s view.

Crawly dithers a moment more, and then Aziraphale hears the door shut. Aziraphale risks a peek out over his wings. Crawly has left. It’s impossible to know what for, or how long.

Aziraphale shifts so he’s facing away from the door before he tugs down the front of his robe to check on the brand. The letters reform again and again, indecisive. For a moment they twist into the language he knows, reading Liar, before they uncoil again.

Just then, a group of humans pass by the inn, speaking rapidly to each other. The brand remains complacent until the humans are gone, and then it warps itself again, again, again.

He looks down upon it with horror and dread. Is the brand shifting to reflect the native language? Can it be that She wants people to recognize what he is, no matter where he is?

He’s struck by the cruelty of it—no, no God isn’t cruel, She’s just, and merciful, and Aziraphale clearly deserves this. 

The brand knots up again, and Aziraphale thinks he’s going to be sick—and then he is. He rolls over on the bed of hay and vomits the remains of his lunch onto the floor.

Once it’s over, he shakily stands. He can’t stay here. Well-meaning as Crawly is, Aziraphale can’t risk him seeing the brand. He needs to go somewhere—somewhere far away. Somewhere the humans haven’t touched yet. He’ll come back to them, he will; once they’ve separated more fully.

Crawly bustles back into the room with medical supplies; water, bowls, towels. He doesn’t know what is wrong, but clearly wants to help.

Aziraphale flashes him a remorseful look as he presses his fingers together. Crawly’s eyes widen. He surges forward with an indecipherable yell—

—and Aziraphale is elsewhere on Earth. 

He’s in a forest, quiet and vast. The brand settles at last, but the searing ache lingers, like a wound that’s been scabbing over has been viciously reopened. Aziraphale sinks down upon a bed of twigs and pine needles, and waits for the pain to abate.

~*~

“Right.” Crowley says. He drains his glass. They’ve busted out his best vintage, and are close to killing the bottle. They very well may never have another chance to drink it, so why not, so went the logic.

“Right.” Crowley repeats, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s haggard with exhaustion, and Aziraphale feels much the same. But whilst humanity can celebrate their success in averting Armageddon, he and Crowley have gone from the frying pan to the fire.

Adam has relinquished his powers; all they can rely on now is each other, and hope that Aziraphale has interpreted Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy correctly.

“Right.” Aziraphale echoes.

“Best get to it then.” Crowley says, after another long moment.

The first rays of dawn are peeking through the blinds in Crowley’s flat. They need to swap soon. It’s a mirac—erm. They’re _fortunate_ that neither Heaven nor Hell have come battering down the door yet for retribution.

It’s only...once they switch, after they get over the initial adjustment, Crowley will then leave to check on the bookshop. The Bentley had popped back into existence right outside, new as the day she was made, somewhere around one a.m. It gave them both hope that the bookshop had been restored as well. Crowley offered to check, and Aziraphale was glad for it. He had never seen the fire that ravaged it, never witnessed piles of ashes that were once priceless antiquarian books. And, if Adam truly reset everything, he may never have to.

Still, they’re reluctant to perform the switch, because it means they’ll soon after separate.

And if they haven’t gotten this right, this may well be their last night together.

Crowley offers his hand across the couch. Aziraphale reaches out, but then draws back, a horrible possibility occurring to him.

“Erm, Crowley, you won’t....?”

“What?”

“You won’t _peek_ , will you? Say you won’t.” He couldn’t bear it if Crowley saw the brand now. If they somehow get through this, gain their freedom, and Crowley thereafter wants nothing to do with him. 

Crowley sputters. “Ngack—for Satan’s—for _someone’s_ sake, why would I ever—?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s heart falls at Crowley’s vehement denial. Has he misread the tension between them? Does Crowley not desire him...in that way? “Of course. How foolish of me.” Aziraphale can’t keep the hurt from his tone. 

“N-No, no no no, that’s not what I meant.” Crowley scrambles over the couch to shorten the space between them to near nothing. His amber eyes are wide and earnest. “I only meant—I wouldn’t do something like that. Without your permission. But of course I’ve thought of...of…”

Aziraphale can’t bear it. He closes the last of the distance between them, capturing Crowley’s mouth in a kiss. Crowley freezes for a split second, and then he’s pulling Aziraphale impossibly closer. Aziraphale melts into his firm hold. Crowley nips at Aziraphale’s lower lip before plunging his forked tongue inside. Aziraphale whimpers into the kiss. He doesn’t want to let go—this could be their only— 

Aziraphale disentangles himself from Crowley with Herculean effort.

“We...We have to switch.”

“Right,” Crowley says, dazedly, eyes on Aziraphale’s kiss-bruised lips. “Yes.”

“We’ll talk after.”

“We’ll do more than _talk_.” Crowley promises with a low growl, and Aziraphale flushes.

Aziraphale holds out his hand. Crowley takes it.

It’s a disconcerting process, swapping corporations. This isn’t like cohabiting one body, as he had earlier today with the delightful Madame Tracey. This is a delicate balancing act. Aziraphale is funneled into Crowley as Crowley is drained out, and vice versa. They have to be careful; too much of either essence packed into one corporation might make the body explode under the stress of it. He feels Crowley’s essence sweep against his own, like when people going opposite directions on the sidewalk brush shoulders. If Aziraphale’s essence could wave, that’s what it’d be doing at the moment. Crowley’s essence throbs back with fond exasperation, and then— 

Aziraphale is inside Crowley.

(Isn’t that a thought?)

It’s a chasm for his mind to leap across. He feels like himself, and not: he’s too tall, too gangly, and the colors of the room look slightly off.

“Everything alright?” Aziraphale asks, and oh, it is rather disconcerting to hear Crowley’s voice speaking his words.

Crowley has scrunched up Aziraphale’s face in discomfort. He scratches lightly at his chest.

“How are you comfortable in this? Itches like anything.”

The brand, while it only flares up now when Aziraphale crosses country borders, is a wound that never fully heals. No manner of poultice or bandage will abate it. Its chafe is such a constant in Aziraphale’s life that he’s long since grown used to it.

“It has nothing at all to do with my wardrobe!” Aziraphale blusters. “You’re just no longer used to wearing non-synthetic fibers.”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders, and the matter is dropped. Aziraphale’s secret is safe. Now, the only thing left is to survive what’s coming.

~*~

After the Ritz, they go back to Crowley’s. It’s Aziraphale’s choice. Once they’re in the Bentley, Crowley begins driving in the direction of the bookshop until Aziraphale, emboldened by his escape from Hell and perhaps three glasses of celebratory champagne too many, places a plump, manicured hand on Crowley’s knee and asks to be taken to Mayfair instead.

Crowley sobers for the lightning-fast drive, and Aziraphale follows suit before long. As lovely as the pleasant fuzz of mild intoxication is, he wants to remember every second of tonight.

The front door of Crowley’s flat is barely shut before the demon presses him up against it. He peppers kisses up Aziraphale’s neck, his jaw, before crashing their mouths together. It’s sloppy and frantic—they can’t get enough of each other. Crowley’s glasses go askew, and he irritably rips them off his face. They clatter off to the floor. Aziraphale groans into Crowley’s mouth, and drags his demon closer still. He can feel Crowley’s need pressing hot and insistent against his thigh. 

“Take me to bed, Crowley.”

Those wonderful amber eyes darken further with lust.

“Yesssss.”

Crowley scoops him up like he’s a damsel on the front cover of a bodice ripper. The romantic gesture steals Aziraphale’s breath, and he huffs incredulous, happy laughs into Crowley’s shoulder as he’s carried into the bedroom.

After placing Aziraphale reverently upon the bedspread, Crowley attempts to extricate himself from his stylish, too-tight pants.

“Nhrght—stupid—blasted, shitty, nrgah—”

Aziraphale watches him flounder and hop about for a moment, a fond, amused smile on his lips, before he scoots over to the edge of the bed, in front of Crowley. 

“Let me help, darling.”

He finishes unzipping Crowley’s trousers. He hooks his fingers in the belt loops and eases the fabric down, slowly, inch by careful inch.

“Angel,” Crowley whines with barely-leashed impatience.

He’s wearing black briefs beneath. There’s a visible damp spot in the fabric. Aziraphale leans forward and mouths around the obvious bulge, his breath hot and wet. His tongue presses fleetingly against the fabric, tasting. 

Crowley bucks, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s open mouth. “Fuck, angel. What you _do_ to me.”

Then he’s kicking off his pants the rest of the way before tackling Aziraphale onto the bed. Aziraphale rolls his hips, and they both groan as their clothed erections brush together.

“Let me—I want to—”

Crowley tugs off Aziraphale’s suit, leaving his waistcoat, dress shirt, and undershirt between them. Crowley’s hands dive beneath Aziraphale’s clothes, stroking his bare skin, squeezing the rolls of his stomach. They creep upward, closer to the brand.

Aziraphale goes rigid.

“Why do you wear so many blessed _layers_?” Crowley complains. 

His hands retreat from Aziraphale’s stomach, but his relief is short-lived, as Crowley’s nimble fingers dart up to unbutton the front of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“ _No_!”

Aziraphale clamps his hands around Crowley’s wrists. Crowley stills, one button undone around Aziraphale’s collar. Aziraphale’s heart pounds so loud he’s sure Crowley can hear it.

“Angel?”

“I just—not that. I’m not ready. Yet.”

He never will be, but Crowley doesn’t need to know.

“Alright,” Crowley says, withdrawing.

Aziraphale has fooled around with humans before (rather difficult to go 6,000+ years without being a _little_ curious what all the fuss is about) but that’s all it ever was—fooling around. They were always furtive, illicit fumblings, where both men remained fully clothed, ready to straighten their ties and button their collars at the first sound of an unexpected interruption. He wasn’t thinking—love and lust had clouded his mind—and he’d nearly given away his darkest secret, just like that.

Once he’s calmed, he realizes his panic poisoned his arousal. Moments ago he’d been eager as anything, prepared to hilt himself on Crowley’s cock and ride him with abandon. Now, he just wants to bundle himself up again, and soothe his frayed nerves with a good book. Crowley sits cross-legged on the bed, more than an arm’s-length apart. He’s watching Aziraphale with unveiled concern.

Aziraphale fidgets with the balding velvet of his waistcoat, and bites his lip. “Oh, I’ve gone and ruined it, haven’t I?”

Everything had been going so _well_.

“No!” Crowley denies, sharply. Quieter, he repeats, “No.”

He extends his arm towards Aziraphale’s, reaching slowly for his hand. Giving him ample time to pull back if he wants. Aziraphale instead meets him halfway, and their fingers thread together. 

“Whatever you want, angel.” Crowley says, his thumb stroking the side of Aziraphale’s hand. “Whatever you need.”

Aziraphale is awash with gratitude—and shame.

“I’m sorry. You’ve waited so long for me to...catch up, so to speak.”

Crowley let slip a low, wounded noise. “Aziraphale, you don’t owe me anything. You’re not obligated to do this—” He gestures to their current half-dressed states. “—if you don’t actually want to.”

Aziraphale clasps Crowley’s hand between both of his, and draws him closer. “No, I swear to you, that’s not it. That’s not what this is about at all.” He pinkens. “I very much want to be with you in the....biblical sense. It’s just…”

Oh, what to say? Not the truth. What good would that do?

“It’s just…?” Crowley prompts him, softly.

Dear, kind, _wonderful_ Crowley. How will he look upon him if he knows what Aziraphale really is? What he’s kept from him for so long, too long?

He casts about for a believable excuse. His hands land upon the slight swell of his belly, and it comes to him.

“I am aware, and there have been comments acknowledging the fact that I am not, erm. In perfect physical condition. That I could stand to, you know.” Aziraphale pats his stomach. Crowley’s expression darkens. “Slim down a tick.”

“Who said?” Crowley growls.

Aziraphale glances away. “No one important.” He lies.

It’s all a load of tosh, for the most part. Yes, Gabriel’s comment about him needing to “lose the gut” had stung. But the Archangels have always found something to nitpick about him and his choices—be it his weight, his hobbies, his miracles. The hurt he felt was more in that he constantly sought their approval, and never quite managed to earn it. He received acknowledgement and recognition only for those moments he despised; he got an accolade for helping Noah construct the ark, and then slam its doors to a sea of faces.

Aziraphale likes himself, his body. He can change it easily enough, if he really wants to spend the miracle, but he is happy with the image humans have of him, of a silly little bookseller who gives warm hugs. Someone harmless and squishy that you can come to with any problems, and expect a plateful of biscuits, warm tea, and earnest compassion from.

Aziraphale twists the ring on his pinky round and round, praying for Crowley to believe him.

“I still want to do everything—anything—with you. I just need this,” He tugs down his shirt. “To stay on, during. If that’s alright.”

“Of course. If that’s what you need, angel.”

Aziraphale flashes him a grateful smile, and tugs Crowley over to him for a kiss. It’s softer than the kisses they’d exchanged moments ago. There’s nothing sexually charged behind it; rather, it’s just meant as a reassurance, a comfort. 

The brand itches. Guilt pools hot and heavy in Aziraphale’s gut.

~*~

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there. You’ll like it, I promise.”

“I swear, Crowley, the last time you said those exact words to me we ended up in a restaurant with the most bizarre menu. I have no intention of partaking of another—another millennial egg—”

“ _Century_ egg. And it won’t be like that. You’ll like it. Trust me, eh? Would I lie to you?”

Aziraphale’s typical response rests on the tip of his tongue—of course you’re lying, you’re a demon, that’s what you _do_. He swallows down the cruel words, and instead makes a noncommittal humming sound. Crowley takes that as Aziraphale conceding defeat, and the conclusion of the conversation, so he dials up the Bentley’s radio a smidge. A new song starts. Drums rumble out an intro, and, predictably, Freddie Mercury’s voice soon follows.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicks to Crowley, who’s got his gaze on the road for once without having to be told. The demon hasn’t ever lied to him, has he? Sure, he’d never baldly state his reasons for doing nice things for Aziraphale, but his denials and excuses were always transparent. Meanwhile Aziraphale, the angel in name only, has lied time and time again. Hiding Adam’s location, denying they were on their own side, declaring they’d never been so much as friends, let alone— 

_Liar!_ _I have drunk the wine._

_Liar! Time after time._

Aziraphale flinches.

_Liar, you’re lying to me._

_Liar, you’re lying to me—_

Aziraphale fumbles with the knobs on the car until the stereo quiets.

Crowley tears his gaze from the road to flash him a look. “Alright there, angel?”

Aziraphale musters up an appropriately prissy expression.

“I am, now that that infernal racket is silenced.”

“Oi!”

~*~

Crowley pulls into the parking lot of Âme de la Mer, an exclusive seafood restaurant that’s been in London for a little under three months now and has yet to have a night not fully booked. Aziraphale will fit right in with the sophisticated surroundings in his customary suit. Crowley has forgone his typical casual wear for something neater for their date night; he sports a new black blazer worn over a maroon dress shirt, tucked into black slacks. Crowley looks amazing in anything (or nothing) but Aziraphale is very appreciative when an occasion calls for the demon to dress up.

Aziraphale has longed to go to this restaurant since its grand opening, but in the weeks leading up to the Apocalypse, there was far more to worry about then securing a reservation for decent, expensive caviar. Then, after escaping their executions, they’d agreed to limit their miracles going forward so as to not give Heaven and/or Hell a reason to break the newly-established truce. Aziraphale still doles out miracles for the humans, blessings here and there, but he has keenly felt the loss of his minor miracles. Forgotten, cold coca is poured down the sink drain instead of becoming miraculously reheated. Humans have become a great deal more difficult to urge out of his shop when he can’t fall back on conjuring weird smells and ghostly hisses in the shelves. And, of course, no more miraculously free tables for two appearing at restaurants when Aziraphale and Crowley want them. 

A human would have to get on a six-month waiting list to book a reservation at Âme de la Mer today, which is why Aziraphale shoots Crowley a suspicious glance as the demon parks. (A valet had tried to come forward for the Bentley, and Crowley had warned the lad off with a glower tangible even through his darkened sunglasses. No one drove the Bentley but Crowley himself.)

“Tell me you didn’t use a demonic miracle to secure us a reservation.”

“I didn’t use a demonic miracle to secure us a reservation.” Crowley recites, dutifully.

“Crowley!”

Crowley kills the engine, and rolls his eyes. “Really, angel, I didn’t. Just had a nice chat with the maitre d’ and he was willing to accommodate my last minute request.”

“You bribed him, didn’t you.”

“Are you complaining?”

Not waiting for an answer, Crowley gets out of the car and circles around to Aziraphale’s side. He opens the door and holds out his hand to help Aziraphale out of the car. This unnecessary but undeniably gallant gesture is one Crowley has taken up after their “retirement”, and Aziraphale can’t say he minds. Once Aziraphale’s out of the Bentley, Crowley releases his grasp on Aziraphale’s hand, only to wrap his spindly arm around Aziraphale’s ample waist. After literal millennia of denying themselves the slightest touch, never daring the risk, they take every opportunity now to make up for it.

They walk into the busy restaurant. Crowley gives the maitre’d a nod, and they’re immediately seated in a cozy booth, facing each other. The overhead light in the restaurant is low, supported by candles upon the table.

“Let me order for us?” Crowley asks, as their waitress fills their water glasses. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow—normally he’s the one who orders their meals, as he’s rather picky, and Crowley will pick at anything—but it is clear from Crowley’s tone that he has a Plan. He’s trying to sound careless when he poses the question, but Aziraphale can discern the thread of nervousness beneath. So Aziraphale nods, sits back, and lets Crowley order.

“Ready, then?” Their waitress pulls out a cream-white pad of paper and a black pen.

Crowley rattles off the entire four course meals for each of them with barely a glance down at the leather-bound menu. He’s prepared for this ahead of time. Crowley, it seems, has more than a Plan. He has an Agenda. What that Agenda is, exactly, Aziraphale can’t be sure of.

The waitress returns promptly with their first courses: golden imperial caviar and fresh oysters.

The caviar is delightful—the pearls large and firm—but Aziraphale can’t help but be partial to the oysters. Any time he tastes the salty-sweet mollusks, he’s taken back to that night at Petronius’. Crowley’s gruff manner had evaporated with the taste of good wine and good seafood. Aziraphale had gotten him to laugh, gotten his pale face to flush red with amusement. Angels patronized Aziraphale, or treated him with stiff politeness. Crowley was the first immortal being to ever spend an evening with Aziraphale and find him clever and good company. 

After the appetizer come two more courses of seafood. Aziraphale savors his langoustines whilst Crowley breaks open crab legs in the most obnoxious way demonically possible, much to the chagrin of their posh fellow diners. Then, they swap bites of dover sole and monkfish. (Aziraphale is more than half convinced Crowley ordered the monkfish just to give him a segue for bad references to Aziraphale’s stint as a monk in Furness Abbey.)

Last—but certainly not least—comes dessert. For Aziraphale, dessert is a nice, dense baba au rhum. For Crowley, it’s an apple confit with brown butter mousse (Crowley doesn’t much go in for sweets, but when he does, he tends to lean towards those of the apple variety for the irony of it). 

Aziraphale polishes off his baba au rhum, and leans back into the cushioned booth with a contented sigh, hands resting lightly over his stomach. The rum in his dessert, coupled with the wine he imbibed throughout their luxurious meal, has left him pleasantly warm. He doesn’t often sleep, but as cozy and sated as he is, he’s liable to drop off right here and now. 

Crowley has yet to finish his own dessert; he’s yet to really start in on it, even. He’s shaved the slightest edge off the confit to nibble upon. Aziraphale is about to ask him if it tastes off, or if Crowley would prefer a box, when Crowley spears a generous forkful of the dessert and offers it out to Aziraphale.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” Aziraphale demurs. “I’ve had plenty. You enjoy it.”

“I like watching you enjoy things.”

The simple honesty of Crowley’s statement has Aziraphale blushing. He knows how Crowley struggles at times, even now, to show his gentle nature outwardly, to not bristle defensively after every kind action.

Aziraphale can hardly deny him now. He leans forward and accepts the offering off Crowley’s fork. It tastes of cinnamon and apples, with a toasty, nutty aftertaste.

“ _Mmm_.”

“How is it?”

“Exquisite.”

Crowley cuts off another forkful and holds it out, expectant. Only after Aziraphale begins chewing does he speak again.

“Y’know I. I adore you. _All_ of you.” His gaze flicks down meaningfully, towards Aziraphale’s stomach. “And I don’t want you to feel like you need to change for me, or anyone. Ever. You should enjoy anything you want. As much as you want.”

 _Oh_.

This, then, is Crowley’s Agenda for the evening. To reassure Aziraphale, to help him overcome his insecurities.

It’s unbearably sweet of Crowley—sweeter than any apple confit in brown butter mousse.

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale’s eyes feel suspiciously glassy. If he wasn’t already in love with Crowley, this one night would’ve done him in.

Crowley smiles at him, warm and soft, as he offers up another mouthful.

Aziraphale accepts it, smiling back. But fast on the heels of his adoration for Crowley surges his growing, gnawing guilt.

~*~

The thing is, Crowley’s a demon. Even if he’s never lied to Aziraphale specifically, he still excels at lying to others. He’s lied to demons, to other angels, to humans, and everything in between. And what are temptations, if not pretty lies? You can leave the bar after one drink; your wife will never find out; one little bite won’t hurt anyone.

Part of being a good liar is being able to see those same tells in others. And yet, Crowley just accepted Aziraphale’s fib as God’s honest truth. The trust that Crowley has in him—Aziraphale is ashamed to be unworthy of it. He’s lied to Crowley in the past, and he’s lying to Crowley even now, even when they’re together, on their own side, and the guilt of it all is twisting his stomach up in knots. As much as he’d hoped for Crowley to believe his lie in the bedroom that night, a part of him had hoped Crowley would see through his excuse, and pry the truth out of him. Rip the bandage off, so to speak. It would’ve been easier if Crowley had pushed him into it, but he never will, which means it falls upon Aziraphale to take action.

Aziraphale lasts three days after the dinner at Âme de la Mer before he crumbles.

It’s an ordinary evening for them. They’re in the back room of the bookshop. Crowley is dozing, head in Aziraphale’s lap, as Aziraphale holds a book in one hand and strokes Crowley’s hair with the other. Aziraphale rereads the same page twenty-three times before he concedes defeat, and sets the novel aside without bothering to bookmark it. 

“Crowley.”

“Mmm?” 

The demon shifts so he’s sitting upright. The trace drowsiness in his demeanor vanishes as Aziraphale takes Crowley’s chin in his hand and kisses him—slowly, deeply, with obvious intent. Crowley responds eagerly, his hands snaking up Aziraphale’s back to tangle in his hair.

“Upstairs,” Aziraphale says, breathlessly, when they part a few moments later. “Please.”

Crowley needs no further prompting, and nearly trips over his own legs like a newborn foal in his rush up the stairs. It makes Aziraphale laugh, in spite of his nervousness. Crowley sticks his forked tongue out at him in response.

Once they’re in the bedroom, Aziraphale removes his jacket. Unknots his bow tie. Unbuttons his waistcoat. He’s forgone the undershirt today; all that’s left between the brand and open air now is his dress shirt, one piece of flimsy fabric.

Crowley is watching him seriously. When Aziraphale’s hands hesitate by his buttoned collar, he speaks up.

“Angel, if you aren’t ready—”

“I am. Only, it’s not—not what you think.”

Crowley makes a confused noise. Aziraphale sighs, and turns around, so his back is facing Crowley. It takes longer than it should; his hands are shaking, making it difficult to push the buttons through. But then it’s done, and he lets the shirt drop in a heap.

His heart quails. He still hasn’t shown Crowley. He can still change his mind. Ask Crowley to leave while he redresses. Crowley will understand.

Aziraphale wrestles against his selfish, fearful impulses. Crowley loves him. Crowley deserves to know the truth. He doesn’t want their relationship to be built upon deceit. 

The bedroom is cold. Aziraphale wants to curl his arms around himself, but he resists.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Aziraphale admits at last, staring down at the floor. “It’s not about my weight, I’ve never minded that. I just didn’t want you to see...this.”

Aziraphale turns to face him. Crowley’s eyes are drawn to the ugly raised scar of the brand instantly. His nostrils flare, his eyes become yellower, and oh, he’s angry.

Aziraphale cringes. “I’m sorry I—”

“Who did this to you?” Crowley growls darkly through fanged teeth. Black scales raise on his skin. “Who _dared_?”

Aziraphale glances upwards.

“Who?” Crowley stalks closer to him. “I need a name. Gabriel? Michael?”

“No, no—not an angel. They don’t know about it. After I—you know—“misplaced” my sword. She asked me what’d happened to it. And I told Her I’d just set it down, somewhere. But She knew the truth, of course. And then She…” He gestures to the puckered, ruined flesh of his chest.

Crowley looks devastated. “You told me She never mentioned it again.”

“Well, my dear.” Aziraphale manages a watery smile. “I guess that makes me a liar, doesn’t it?”

Crowley snarls up at the ceiling. “You miserable _bitch_!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale flashes a scandalized look between him and Above. No one’s heard, thankfully—or they aren’t listening anymore. Still, it’s an awful risk to take, calling attention to himself like that. “You have to be careful!”

Crowley paces the room, shaking his head in distress. 

“No, Aziraphale. I can’t believe She’d—to one of Her own—of course She would, what am I saying, it’s what She’s _always_ done!”

“You don’t have to make such a fuss over it. It’s been quite some time. I’ve more than adjusted.”

Crowley halts in front of Aziraphale. He reaches out, fingers brushing at the very edge of the r, oh so careful.

“Does it still hurt you?”

“Ah, well. That’s…”

“Aziraphale. I need to know.”

“Only on occasion. Only when I, ah, travel.” At Crowley’s confused look, he clarifies. “It alters itself to reflect whatever the common tongue is.”

Crowley’s staring at the brand, but he’s looking past it, lost in thought.

“So is that why you settled down in London?”

“Staying in one place certainly helps.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “Then, those temptations I asked you to cover for me—”

Aziraphale holds up a hand to cut him off. “No, Crowley. You needn’t feel guilty about this. The Arrangement halved the trips out of England I had to take. And it’s—it doesn’t hurt _that_ much.”

“It shouldn’t hurt at all!” Crowley yells. Pauses. He visibly forces himself to calm. “What have you tried so far to remove it?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Remove it?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t tried!”

“This is my punishment for my transgressions against Her. I must bear it with dignity.”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is! Bloody Lucifer gets chucked from the clouds for hating the humans, then you _help_ them, and this is your reward?”

Crowley begins muttering to himself about books on curse-breaking, and taking a visit to Tadfield to enlist the aid of the American witch. Aziraphale, for his part, is bewildered, bordering on the edge of panic.

“You’re not mad at me?” Aziraphale blurts, interrupting Crowley’s ramblings. The demon stops short to look at him, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. Aziraphale continues. “You know, now. I’m not as good as you thought I was. And yet, I didn’t Fall. Others were cast out for less than my crime, I’m sure of it. I’m sure your sins were nothing in comparison to my own. I thought...you’d hate me. For Her partiality.”

He’s a tainted angel, but an angel still, belonging nowhere. If the angels, back when he worked among them, had ever seen the brand, they would’ve ostracized him further than they already had. And for so, so long, he’s dreaded Crowley finding out, imagining his hurt and his hatred.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?”

“Really now.” Aziraphale flushes. He’s feeling very raw and exposed right now, and Crowley’s nonchalance about the situation is grating and hurtful.

“Come ‘ere, angel.” 

Crowley threads their hands together, and Aziraphale lets himself be tugged over to the bed. They sit side by side, their knees pressed together. Aziraphale draws the rumpled comforter over his bare shoulders. Crowley wraps an arm around him, and rubs small circles on Aziraphale’s forearm. 

“Listen, hey? I’m not mad at you. I’m mad this was done _to_ you. I’m mad you believe what She did was Her being generous.”

It _was_ , Aziraphale wants to argue, but Crowley slices him a warning look. He’d rather not fight; they can agree to disagree for the moment.

Aziraphale shifts so he’s leaning his head against Crowley’s thin chest. Crowley’s chin soon after rests atop Aziraphale’s curls.

“I want to look into removing it.” Crowley says, at length. “I want to try. There may be nothing for it, considering who exactly placed it on you, but I can’t just be alright with it.”

Aziraphale nods. Then tenses, understanding Crowley’s further meaning. He squirms out of Crowley’s arms.

“Of course. I understand.”

“Angel?”

Aziraphale grabs up his dress shirt. He pulls it on. As he goes to button it up from the bottom, Crowley stays his hands by placing his own overtop of Aziraphale’s.

“Angel.” Crowley repeats, softer.

“You shouldn’t have to look at it. You don’t want to look at it. I’ve upset you.” Aziraphale tries to pull his hands free, to finish covering up the hideous thing, but Crowley’s grasp is firm and unrelenting.

“Can you get out of your own head and just listen to me? Please.”

The “please” has Aziraphale at last dragging his flustered gaze up to meet Crowley’s. Crowley releases one of Aziraphale’s hands so he can reach up and tenderly trace the brand.

“I just—I don’t want you to be in pain, alright? But if it’s unfixable, if nothing changes, that doesn’t mean _I_ change. I want you. All of you, like I said before. That includes this, and anything else.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale colors. The flare of anxiety fizzles out, and he releases his tight grip on the shirt buttons. Crowley takes that as encouragement, and winds his arms around Aziraphale, squeezing his padded flesh. Aziraphale shivers. He’s never been touched like this before, on this part of his body. It’s more intimate than the sex they’ve had, somehow. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Don’t you dare call me kind. Or nice.” Crowley warns, reading Aziraphale’s tone at once. His fingers brush against the brand. “I really do hate four-letter words.”

“...Hate is a four-letter word.”

Crowley pinches his side in retribution.

**Author's Note:**

> The menu for the restaurant they go to is based on (aka entirely ripped off of) a swanky place in NY called Le Bernardin. My wallet would commit seppuku if I ever went, though.
> 
> There was supposed to be a sex scene at the end but Crowley and Aziraphale just kept talking, I’m sorry. Tentatively considering a sequel where they attempt to undo the Almighty’s curse, but I make no promises!


End file.
